Wrak does not know why he woke up so early today. Today is Saturday, and the automatic coffee maker is off, and father does not have to leave at seven fifteen today after a cereal breakfast and a cup of coffee. Today is another day of summer in Tranquil Hills, and the sun shines in the kitchen window now as it does almost every morning except in June when the coastal fog crawls up the canyon into Bacon Way and Mellowman’s Lane. Wrak does not know why he drifts around the house so early today, but notices his little dog Punkin is not on his cushion. Where is Punkin, wrak thinks. Wrak walks over to his father’s Pall Mall cigarette pack and steals one and puts it in his shirt’s pocket. He will go outside for a coffee and a smoke after breakfast. Wrak opens the back door and steps outside, where the garage meets the back door of the house, and a little herb garden sits in front of the trash cans. BG is sitting on the ground playing with Punkin. Punkin is sitting up and begging with his little paws, making a praying motion. If a person were not sane, they would think BG and the dog were having a conversation. Any sane person knows this is not so. “BG, what are you doing out back with my dog at 6 AM?” Inquires Wrak. “I had nothing to do, so I am playing with Punkin,” says BG. He ignores wrak and pets the little orange platinum Silky terrier. “Besides, he says, a new south swell should be hitting right now, and I want to see if the Bu is catching it.” “Get your board and wetsuit and let’s go.” “Get some food and steal some of your Dad’s cigarettes for the road.” Wrak does not have a board, or is at least in between boards so he borrows his brother’s lily white seven-foot eleven-inch pipeline gun with winglets shaped by Dean. “Be sure the board fits in between the seats before we start off,” says BG. “I have my sack of stuff,” says Wrak. “Light me smoke and let’s have at it,” says BG.
The Pacific coast highway remains a beautiful stretch of road on the good side of town and touches in the opulent beach area of Northern Los Angeles called Malibu and Point Dume Estates. The Army Corps of Engineers built the road wide, and the palisades to the east rise beautifully in the east and the ocean sparkles dazzlingly on the left and west side of the street. Most of the movie star beach house has been torn down, and the ocean beckons alluringly, sweetly, and innocently as Catalina Island shimmers sixty miles away to the southeast. Surf Rider Beach has a parking lot, a wall, and a secret house hidden in the moat inside of the creek belonging to the Ringe family. Surf Rider Beach today displays three-foot waves and a slight south wind, which ruins the shape somewhat and makes the lines section raggedly as they turn inward into the first point. “Let’s go out,” says Wrak. “There is hardly anyone here!” “No!” I do not want to get in my suit for three-foot mush and south wind,” asserts BG.
“I am deciding,” insists BG. “Don’t talk, I am thinking.” “Probably the swell is too south for the Bu, and the tide changes right for the pipeline. “What pipeline?” says Wrak. At Newport Point, there is a secret surf break that only experienced people can surf. Houses are built on the beach, and no parking exists so there is no way to enter the surf zone without having your car towed. “I know Juan says BG.” “We can park at his house on the beach.” “Light me another smoke.” We are jamming to the pipeline.
At seventy-plus miles per hour, the Chevrolet econocar propels down highway one. Highway ten appears, and then Highway five appears, and the huge refinery burns by, and Highway 58 becomes a reality, and then into Newport. BG’s uncle is Richie Rich.
“Who is the guy?” says Juan. “BG, you know better than to bring strangers here!” “He is cool,” says BG “Besides, he is a friend of mine.” “OK,” says Juan, “Pull it in and close the garage.” “I just finished the night shift as a security guard.” I am going to have coffee and breakfast and wake up,” says Juan. “You two can go out.” “It’s pretty good.” A south swell hit last night. The waves at the point are at least 8 feet. Wrak learns quickly. He realizes that an extremely south swell blocked out by Catalina Island focuses on the point here. BG and wrak sit on the beach at the point in the morning, and the water shimmers like glass, and the fishing boats sail out at the pier, and the waves crest at eight to ten feet and bigger, breaking like turning cylinders and spitting in the shallow end of the sand bar. This is the Newport pipeline, and the wave looks better than Hawaii. Hawaii is always windy. The point today shows smooth as molten glass, and green water waves break in perfect form and harmony onto shallow sand reefs. “Let’s go surfing,” says BG. “I can’t go backside so good,’ whine Wrak, “They will run me over.” “Just tell them you know Juan,” says BG. “They will back off.” “I will go surf on the right side of the channel. It looks almost as good.” “Get a few waves and paddle over to the left,” says BG. “It really is good.”
The paddle out at the point seems easy compared to the washing machine up north. Wrak waits outside and paddles into a twelve-foot right peak, bottom turns, and releases the inside edge of the pintail to ride the tube. A huge blond-haired local takes off in front of Wrak, and Wrak holds the edge of the board in the vortex, then reinserts the inside rail as the wave spits foam and blows by a huge blond-haired kook. Inside the shore-break, the huge blond-haired local grabs the white pintail from wreck and says “If you take off on another of my waves, I will kill you.” “Give me back my surfboard, you blond, I am a guest of Juan. The big blond surf God looks at wrak, looks at wrak, looks at wrak, then grabs his own board and paddles away. “I had better stay clear of him.” Thinks wrak, Time to surf some lefts.” The channel at the point means an easy paddle out. Halfway out, BG enters a ten-foot pipeline peak. He goes straight off, then turns hard, and the board arcs up into the hook of the wave as the water forms a pipeline tube. As the wave tubes over him, BG carves back down the face, then turns again up into the hook, and then goes by Wrak as he paddles out. Outside in the lineup, BG returns. “How do you like the pipeline?” Asks GB. “The waves are great but the locals burn aggressively,” says Wrak. “Just do not snake Juan,” says BG, “Then you will be OK.” “Let’s surf till our arms drop off,” says BG. “This is as good as it gets.” A small six to eight-foot wave peaks at the point, Wrak is on it, and now he is a believer.
Juan lets BG and Wrak redress in his garage. His parents live upstairs in a two-story house converted into a duplex. “I have someone I want you to meet,” says BG. “Let’s go meet the Brotherhood.” “The Brotherhood of eternal love.”
We met some friends in Newport town in an apartment in an upscale building with security and potted plants everywhere. BG tells Wrak that one of his friends is deaf and not to make fun of him. The deaf person is smaller, with brown hair, a deep chestnut tan in short pants and a Hawaiian shirt. Another person is larger, skinnier, with brown curly hair and a beard, dressed similarly, and who laughs a lot. The wrak grabs a piece of paper and writes on the paper what we are discussing so the deaf person can stay tuned. The deaf person does not talk, but smiles and reads the paper. Smoke passes around and the boys share surf stories and compare the lifestyle of Los Angeles with Newport Beach and Irvine. “Is he cools,” they each ask BG in turn. “He is cool,” says BG, a friend of mine. Do you have a car for a run they ask. No, says the Wrak, they think I am not responsible. After a while, Juan shows up on schedule, and BG and Wrak decide the time is right to leave. Wrak waves goodbye to the brotherhood and will never see them again. They provided hospitality and cordiality and all that can be expected of them in a place in time down south. BG and wrak accelerate onto the freeway and rocket toward Los Angeles. “Light me another smoke,” says BG. “I am driving.” The refinery and the large deep fence hiding the factory from the people appear, then disappear. We arrive on the ten and then the one and up Sunset to Bacon way. Wrak pulls his board out of the hatchback, and Punkin jumps out from the fence and greets the pair. “Hi Punkin,” says BG. “See you later.” The green Chevrolet econocar accelerates quickly and smoothly because the car weighs very little. BG leaves as mysteriously and enigmatically as he arrives when the buoy indicators of big surf herald a new swell. Wrak goes back to the daily rigmarole of reality, sometimes punctuated by excitement.
Wrak never rode the pipeline again. Occasionally, when wrak would surf the area, he would park illegally and watch the waves from an aperture on the street that meets the beach. Once, a skinny, tall, beach boy with a long head and blond hair would appear and menace him with a Ruger 10/22 varmint rifle. The tall beach boy shot him once when he was in his wetsuit, but the bullet did not stick in. The Newport pipeline is real. The Newport pipeline tubes perfectly. The Newport pipeline gives a great drop and acceleration. The Newport pipeline is off limits to commoners. “The rich are different from you and me,” said The Great Gatsby. Wrak knows what he means. The only reason Pipeline is better than the point is that the water is warm, and it gets to twenty feet. The point is best at six to ten feet, but don’t bother to go surf it; the well-endowed landowners have dredged the reef because they don’t want low-class surfers treading on the mean high tide zone. The California pipeline does not exist anymore, at least until the sand builds back up again after the Wracks is long gone. I guess this is the way it is . They have done it to moonlight too!! Time rolls on, the morning is soft and beautiful and full of tanned women and waves in the time where only luck and darkness prevail.